


Wilbur in a box

by FlowersandKnives



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Buried Alive, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eating bugs, Insanity, Lots, Phil and Tommy are mentioned, Piss, Schlatt too, The Author Regrets Everything, and then he gets trapped in a box, author also cannot spell, author is suffering, don’t read if you have claustrophobia, i guess, oh god what have i written, this fic is gross, you thought Wilbur was insane before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowersandKnives/pseuds/FlowersandKnives
Summary: So basically Wilbur gets stabbed, and dies.Except he doesn’t and wakes up in a coffin. Buried Alive.Yeah.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Wilbur in a box

**Author's Note:**

> How we feelin about the festival guys?
> 
> if there are typos or grammar mistakes, no there are not you are imagining things ::)

Wilbur jolted awake with a sharp pain in his chest. It was dark and damp, he felt as if he suffocating. He moved to sit up but found something blocking his way.

Feeling with his hands it was a box made of wood. How did he get here?

————————————

The rumble of TNT shook him to his core, his brain rattling around in his skull. Wilbur watched with a empty feeling in his chest as everything he worked for, and lost, went up in flames. 

He turned towards Phil, arms spread wide. He thought this would’ve made the pain hurt less, but it did not. There was nothing for him anymore. And so he had one last request for his father, to end his suffering.

The blond mans expression was unreadable as he drove the sword through his chest. But Wilbur saw the apologetic look as his vision faded to black.

———————————

That’s right. Phil had killed him. So why was he in a box?? 

Wilbur pounded on against the sides of the box, sighing when they gave no movement. Why would a dead man be in a box?

That’s when Wilbur was hit with the terrible thought. He wasn’t dead, but they hadn’t known and buried him alive. With panic fuelling him, the man thrashed and screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice was already hoarse from lack of water and he had to strain himself.

He called for Phil, Tommy, he’d called for everyone he could think of. Hell, he even called Schlatt once, that’s how desperate and scared he was. 

Eventually he found himself unable to scream, only making wheezing noises. Wilbur turned his head, coughing blood into the coffin. The smell of dirt that he didn’t notice before melded with its iron scent. It was nauseating.

He was so incredibly tired.

————————————

Wilbur didn’t know how long he slept for, only that his joints and muscles felt like they were strung on a wire. He stretched as much as possible, which was little to none. 

His chest didn’t hurt as much anymore, which was good. The bad however was that his stomach was grumbling, a welcome noise in the silence that caused his ears to ring. 

He would starve to death if he didn’t escape. He remembers back in pogtopia there had been a few days that he had to skip meals, but he never worried about starving before. 

Wilbur felt tears begin to well in his eyes, he knew it was bad and he had to stay as hydrated as possible, but the tears flowed without his permission. The air was stale and Wilbur briefly questioned how he hadn’t suffocated yet.

—————————

He awoke to feel something crawling across his face. Panicking, Wilbur shot up and hit his head on the lid of his coffin. The bug was gone but now he was very dizzy with a headache. Great. 

He was even more hungry, it was almost painful. There was also a sharp feeling in his pelvic area, signalling that he needed to piss. But he had to keep as much fluid as possible. He had to wait for help.

Was help even coming?? He had screamed for what had felt like hours and no one came. 

Did they purposefully leave him? Wilbur wanted to deny it but they had put him here. When he was still alive. Did they not notice? Was that how little they cared for him, even after his death? 

He screamed again, this time with anger and curses towards those who doomed him to this fate. Damn them all to hell for doing this to him! 

Once his screams again turned to hoarse groans, and he coughed more blood, he swore he’d never forgive any of them. This was a fate worse than being stabbed by his own father. 

—————————

Wilbur felt a spark of joy when running his hands against the bottom part of the coffin, he’d found a small pooling of water near his head. Painfully twisting his body until he was on his stomach, he let his dry tongue scoop what it could from the puddle.

The wood of the coffin split his tongue, mixing the little water with plenty of blood. He trailed a finger around the area of the puddle, finding the wood was damp. Water was water, and Wilbur had never been more thankful to have the pain in his mouth to distract him from how heavy he felt.

——————————

The silence was so loud. Wilbur had covered his ears and coward against the harsh ringing in his ears. Tears streamed down his face and he curled in on himself, the noise was unbearable. 

He threw himself against the side of the coffin, wailing against how unfair this was. He’d been betrayed, lost everything, and then sentenced to death by rotting in his own coffin. What had he done to deserve this?

Pressing his hand against the side, Wilbur strained his eyes to see them, to remind himself he was still alive. It was futile, no light reached him in prison. Everything was dark as night and his eyes hurt. 

What did his hands look like? 

—————————

The next time Wilbur felt a bug brush against his side, he did not panic. Instead like a spider in wait he trapped it under his hand, and although he couldn’t see it, he could feel it squirm between his fingers. 

The pain in his stomach pushed him forward, dropping it into his open mouth. It squirmed inside his dry mouth, legs clawing against his teeth. It crunched in his mouth, the outside hard but inside a chewy jelly like substance. Wilbur struggled to swallow, the taste burning his tongue. 

It didn’t soothe his stomach but it was better than nothing. He reached behind his head, feeling against his prisons walls. His stomach rumbled as he pinched another between his fingers.

————————

The smell of urine, blood, and sweat was over powering. Wilbur hadn’t even realized he had relieved himself until he awoke to the smell and a uncomfortable wetness between his legs. 

He was thirsty again, and his puddle was all but dry. Wilbur clawed at the area around it, desperate for water to soothe his throat. Something wet hit his face. And then again.

Water dripped slowly, agonizingly slow, down into the coffin. It must have trickled down from the surface, and Wilbur thanked every deity he could think of for this miracle. He allowed the drops to fall into his open mouth. 

Each drop felt like a piece of heaven.

—————————

Wilbur was thankful for the water, filling the bottom of his coffin even if it was mixed with urine and blood. He didn’t drink that, only the drops that came from above his head. However, he was cold. So very cold.

It must’ve been raining a lot on the smp for the ground to have soaked up this much water.

He’d stopped feeling hungry a while ago, eating every bug he could find. Their squirming was a welcome addition to his small collection of senses that remained. Besides the occasional slosh of water and his own breathing, it was beautifully silent. He hadn’t seen anything in a long while. He couldn’t quiet remember the shade of the sky, or of the grass. 

So he immersed himself in the sense of touch and taste. He liked the squishy bugs, reminded him of jelly donuts. 

—————————

The water continued to rise until it was reaching Wilburs ears. He was beginning to panic. He couldn’t even drink the water around him, too filled with urine and grime. His sense of smell had thankfully faded a while ago, a small mercy.

How was this much water here? He even thought he’d heard thunder rumble once, but it was hard to hear from the water in his ears.

Hadn’t Phil said onetime, that if he were to ever be buried he wanted to be just under the surface? It was so that he could be close to the sky even in death. That anyone who visited his grave could truly sit with him.

Could it be.... the same had been done with him?? He hazily remembered expressing how he liked Phil’s idea, and that he might even use it for himself when he died. 

Had he been close to the surface the entire time?! Had everyone just ignored him screaming until he coughed blood?!

Wilbur clawed against the top of the coffin, ignoring as one of his nails tore off. His blood was warm against his skin that was brutally cut by the wood. It was weaker, having been dampened by the draining water. 

He doesn’t know how long he clawed at the lid, only that his fingers had lost traction at multiple points, slicked in his own blood. And then, he felt dirt. 

He punched at the wood around the hole, his knuckles busting and bleeding. He didn’t have much room to wind back and he was incredibly weak but his constant assault gave its rewards. 

Wilbur ignored the dirt steadily falling around his face, pushing against the lid and feeling euphoria at the creak of nails straining. The combination of water and his brutal assault had weakened the top near his head, enough for him to pry it open. 

Or he assumed, everything was still pitch black. Pulling his grime covered shirt over his nose, Wilbur slowly pushed into the cool earth.

He clawed upwards until he reached his arms length, and there was a small sliver of light that burned his eyes. He pushed up, the shirt protecting his nose and mouth from dirt. 

His first breath of fresh air stung his lungs as if he’d been stabbed in the chest. Again. Wilbur had his eyes clenched shut against the light. He laid like that for a while, face planted in the grass and his lower half still in the ground. 

He was so cold and so, so very tired. He laid there for a long time, simply breathing the fresh air. When his eyes eventually fluttered open, Wilbur looked at his hand.

His eye sight was horrid, everything a blurry mix of color. Hands that has once been nimble with guitar strings were painting the grass a bright red. It was hard to see skin beneath the dirt and grime, not to mention his fingers. Bloody red, with the white of his bones visible in multiple places. 

The man tiredly rolled onto his back, legs still encased by the dirt. The rain was gentle against his dirt caked skin. So very cold. Hungry. Tired

Too tired to feel angry, only peace that he could see the sky one last time. 

—————————

Sometimes ghostbur would find himself staring at his hands, filled with indescribable happiness at his intact fingers. Sometimes his voice would go out mid conversation, and his mouth felt dry. Sometimes he was overcomed with a stench he couldn’t place. Sometimes he felt as if water was sloshing around in his ears.

Sometimes, Ghostbur found himself visiting a small clearing the middle of the woods with no path. The only other thing being a small unmarked stone, and a pretty patch of blue flowers around it.


End file.
